


dark & quiet & dead

by heartofstanding



Series: force & longing & faith [1]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, Zombies, cliffhanger ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If this is the end of the world as they know it, Mitchell, at least, seems determined to see it out totally drunk.</i> Mitchell and George are in a pub during the zombie apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dark & quiet & dead

**Author's Note:**

> (1) This would probably be set early Series 2, if not between Series 1 and 2.  
> (2) These zombies aren't related to the zombies seen in Series 3 (i.e. Sasha). If I'd written a fullblown AU, I'd probably have invented my own type of supernatural villains but for a short piece, I couldn't be bothered.

If this is the end of the world as they know it, Mitchell, at least, seems determined to see it out totally drunk. Which is fair enough in George's opinion. If there was a guide about how to deal with the world's ending, called something like _So there's an apocalypse, now what?_ , getting drunk would definitely feature, somewhere between 'acceptance' and 'pray for your eternal salvation'.

Still, he wishes Mitchell would actually talk to him whilst getting sozzled. It's understandable, because there's only so many times they can have the _holy fuck we're all going to die_ and _you shouldn't have stayed with me / i couldn't not stay_ conversations without suffering an incurable breakdown, and really, every other topic of conversation seems to have been swallowed up by the fucking zombies.

Still. Talking would be a better distraction than watching Mitchell eating stale crisps and drinking everything in sight.

The pub is eerily quiet. George could remember reading stuff about how complete silence is a myth, and he thinks that's a fucking lie, because if it wasn't for Mitchell and his drinks, this place would be completely silent. Dead quiet.

Which doesn't really bear thinking of.

George eyes off the packets of crisps and peanuts, tries to work out if they can ration them. Annie used to say that it'd all blow over, that they would just have to wait it out. But that was before she and the other ghosts joined the war effort, considering that they were the only beings that couldn't be harmed by zombies. That was before the mass evacuations, the power-cuts, the blackouts. That was before they'd been forced to flee the pink house.

He hopes Annie's all right. She'll want to be with them in the end, and maybe she will. He hopes Nina's all right, packed up onto one of those buses that was meant to take people to safety. There were stories about the buses being overturned, all the passengers killed or taken. Rumours that the zombies weren't the only ones who attacked the buses, that vampires - pissed off at being left behind - were behind at least some of the attacks.

Mitchell wasn't allowed to go with them. No vampires allowed, that was one of the rules, and the officials had stood with digital cameras, photographing each person in line to make sure no vampire slipped through their nets.

They blamed the vampires for the zombies, said it was a mutilation of the vampire gene, caused by bad blood, or something. George wasn't sure about that, he remembered Mitchell's wide-eyed denial, that _if this was just us_ (and it was _us_ now, never _them_ or _the vampires_ ) _then it would've happened a long time ago_. But there needed to be someone to blame and the vampires had been born into this new world with bright red targets painted all over them.

Even though the zombies didn't exactly discriminate in their choice of victims.

Looking across at Mitchell, head bowed, and all dark lines of regret and grim acceptance, George thinks of how both Nina and Mitchell had begged him to leave with the buses, but Annie and her dark eyes had understood.

+

They're sitting behind the bar, drinks in hand, Mitchell's head tipped back against the wooden shelving. He's got a bottle of rum next to him, half-empty, and next to it a flickering candle. Shadows falls over everything, and every shape is a monster, something waiting to get them. At least it's quiet. Monsters aren't quiet.

Not these monsters, at any rate.

It's cold, so very cold, and there seems to be nothing left but the cold and the faint light the candle gives out. With a slight rustle, Mitchell stands and brings over another packet of crisps, tearing into them.

'We should be careful,' George says, 'Ration everything. We don't know how long—'

Mitchell gives him a deeply pitying look. Either he means, _we won't survive much longer_ or _i will kill myself if i have to live on crisps for more than a week, don't think i don't have a stake stashed away somewhere_. Whatever the meaning, George's voice stutters and trails off. He wraps his jacket tighter around himself and thinks of leaning into Mitchell, into what little warmth he has.

There's a noise outside, a bit like branches scraping on a window, a bit like fingers clawing at the door. They both look up at that, the startled look on Mitchell's face (not quite surprise, not quite shock) makes him look suddenly younger.

' _The candle_ ,' George hisses, and Mitchell hesitates only one moment before he blows it out and they're plunged into darkness. It weighs on his mind, the slight hesitation, as though Mitchell has given up, is ready to let them (himself, really) be found.

The noise doesn't happen again.

+

The full moon is three days off. George isn't sure how they'll deal with it. The last time, in some other place they were hiding, Mitchell had locked himself in the bathroom for the night. The wolf had prowled outside that door, whimpering and scratching pathetically at the wood, trying to get in. Or so Mitchell has said. They had their theories, that the wolf had wanted to to be with the one remaining member of its pack, or else it had known what was coming, that they would be nearly caught the next day.

Mitchell gets up and fetches another bottle of something. It's violently green and in some other life George would be going _really, Mitchell, really?!_ right now.

'Get me a beer, will you?'

Mitchell raises an eyebrow and says nothing, but he pulls another beer and puts the glass in George's hand. It's just as well vampires have good eyes in the dark. They sit side-by-side and drink, Mitchell wincing at the taste of his green drink.

'What's it supposed to be?'

'Melon.'

It's only a word, but it's been so long since George's heard Mitchell's voice that he immediately wants to shout and dance and ask Mitchell a hundred questions if only to get a hundred words out of him. Still, he can't bring himself to think of innocuous questions, since everything else seems to be some variation of _how much longer do you think we've got, do you think nina/annie's okay, this really sucks_. Mitchell shifts, drains another mouthful from the bottle.

'I'd never thought I'd die like this.'

Which sounds almost clichéd, given the circumstances, and George wants point it out and he wants to say, _we're not going to die, we've just to hang on a little longer_. But he doesn't. He just shifts minutely closer to Mitchell, which might not be appropriate for best mates, for vampires-and-werewolves, but it's fucking cold and they'll probably get eaten by zombies before the month's out.

'What did you expect?'

Mitchell shrugs, all loose-limbed, and his head dips down towards George's shoulder. 'Fever. That's what killed my mum. I was, god, I don't know. In those days, everything was potentially lethal. And then there was the war, and you'd see people just... one moment they were there, fighting, the next, they were just bits of blood and bone.'

The war has always been off the table, even after Mitchell had let it slip he'd met Herrick there. George has thought of asking, before, but every time he heard a shrill cry of _don't mention the war!!_ in his head, like it was straight out of that series with John Cleese.

'I mean, there's only so many times you can brush bits of your mates off before you start drawing a line. Start knowing that there's no such thing as mercy. That it's kill or be killed.' He bares his teeth in a rictus of a grin. 'But it's not something you can just decide. Half of it is brutality and the other half is bloody fucking luck.'

He falls silent, again, and drinks from the bottle. George knows he's drunk, knows it's possible that, maybe, the vampire in Mitchell will come out to play, say all the things that Mitchell keeps under wraps, pull things from a time where the hunger was always sated and everything was hedonistic and decadent. It must be quite a comedown, of being the most dangerous monster in the dark to hiding in abandoned pubs getting drunk with a werewolf and waiting to be eaten.

There's nothing else for it, George slings his arm over Mitchell's shoulder. It's late, he knows it, it's too late, but he's glad to hear Mitchell finally talking about his past, what he went through to make him _him_ , and that George is trusted to keep these secrets for however long they have left.

'I always figured I'd go out in a blaze of glory,' Mitchell says, slurring his words now. He drops his head onto George's shoulder, his nose squashed against the denim jacket. 'Or a bizarrely epic suicide.' He blinks, slow and steady. Georges wants to clutch at him, figure out when he's thought of suicide. 'And now I'm here. Waiting to die.'

He laughs. It's more of a high, hysteric snort than anything else and George really, really hopes he's not about to start crying. Mitchell laughs again. George slaps a hand over his mouth because they really do need to be quiet. Even so, the madness in that muffled laugh sends something sick swooping through George: _this is it, this is it, we're going to die here in this fucking bar, i'm going to die here next to a drunk, insane vampire_.

When Mitchell's quiet again, when the shaking has eased, George lets him go with a warning glance, and in the faint light of the candle Mitchell looks so very tired.

+

They lie side-by-side on the floor behind the bar. George knows if he looks across at Mitchell, his eyes will open, faint glints in the darkness. But he doesn't, still paying tribute to the idea that they're going to fall asleep and wake up in the morning, sober and safe and sane. George doesn't know how long it's been since he last slept. A month, maybe - and longer since sleep involved anything more than an uneasy doze. It'd be even longer since Mitchell slept, properly, but they still pretend. It's a routine if nothing else.

If George had been asked how his life was going to end up, he wouldn't have even guessed about the werewolf thing, let alone house-sharing with a vampire and a ghost, or the zombie apocalypse.

He won't look over, he won't. He won't even try and squint at his watch, count down the hours until sunlight. Morning won't make a difference, not really, but at least they'd see their deaths coming.

Mitchell lets out a restless noise, shifts beside him. George glances over. He can see the glint of eyes and gives a weak smile, hoping Mitchell can see it and take hope in it. Mitchell sighs and smiles back, or so George likes to think. He can see the twitch in Mitchell's face, but not the actual expression. Mitchell sits up, legs outstretched. George wonders vaguely if this is it, the moment they stop pretending that something is normal.

'I need a wee,' is all that Mitchell says, and then he staggers off into the dark. George holds his breath until he comes back.

+

It is so quiet.

Outside, inside, _everything_ , is so quiet, like the kind of quiet you'd hear a pin drop in. Even breathing seems too loud. Sometimes George holds his breath, clasps his hand over his mouth, as though the sound of his breathing will draw the monsters to them (he used to think they were the monsters, _how about that_ ) (maybe they still are, but there's worse things out there now). He thinks of Nina, he thinks of Annie, and he hopes they are safe. He thinks of Mitchell next to him and of all the regrets and hunger in him. He hopes they make it through the night.

They lie side to side in the quiet and the still, and he thinks of everything that has passed, everything that is coming.

'George?' Mitchell's voice is soft, tentative.

'Yeah?'

'You shouldn't have stayed with me.'

George opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Inside his head, _i couldn't not stay_ and _i don't regret it_ and _can we stop having this fucking conversation_ dance around. He shuts his mouth, thinks of everything that might have happened if he'd gotten on the bus with Nina.

'Maybe I shouldn't have.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I know you are,' is all that George says, even though he wants to tell Mitchell that he has nothing to be sorry for. Mitchell hadn't asked it of him, had argued with him longer than even Nina had, had borne the guilt of George staying (of the idea of George dying) for him. Mitchell has done nothing but been the best mate George could have ever wanted, and it wasn't to get this type of pay-off.

He squirms over and nudges Mitchell with his shoulder, smiles to show him that it is all okay, even though it isn't. In the faint trickles of sunlight pouring in through the cracks in the curtains, George can see Mitchell's face twitch, relax into a quiet, sad laugh.

'For the record, Mitchell,' George says, keeping his voice firm but quiet, 'I couldn't not have stayed.'

Mitchell blinks, slow and heavy, and his lips part like he could argue the point, but he doesn't. He just nods, once quick jerk of his head, and licks his lips.

'I'm glad, even though I shouldn't be,' Mitchell says, and George understands.

Mitchell doesn't say anything more, like he's finally worked out that he doesn't need to say anything else. They look each other and smile and there is nothing that needs to be said, no secrets and declarations, just them, hanging onto each other in this tumultuous sea that will drown them both no matter what they do.

There's a scrape of something at the windows. George watches that fragile smile die on Mitchell's face, watches that harsh swallow jerk in his throat. The noise comes again, louder, and he thinks, _well, at least we made it to the morning._


End file.
